


and these, our haloed actions

by picketfences (OnyxSphinx)



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 5 + 1, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, i play fast and loose with canon and historical accuracy, minimal spying because this is mostly a fic about ben and caleb's dynamic, this is technically during the canon timeline but like.......barely specifies it, yes i half stole the bath scene from the witcher what's your point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25746466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/picketfences
Summary: Five times Ben wanted to kiss Caleb, and one time he acted on his desire
Relationships: Caleb Brewster/Benjamin Tallmadge
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	and these, our haloed actions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cxhztile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cxhztile/gifts).



> did it take me three years post-finale to actually write anything for this fandom? yes. i'm deviating from my usual modus operandi—that is, writing fic exclusively for a seven year old film—for this, and no, i'm not about to apologise, because i had quite a bit of fun

Setauket in winter is like nothing else Ben has ever known; at three in the morning, it is a ghost of a town. He misses it now, though, camped in the woods of New Jersey; for even a ghost town is louder and more merry than  _ this. _

Caleb, though—Caleb’s trying his best to remedy the quiet. The rest of his men may have turned in quietly to their beds, but Caleb’s chosen to come to his tent, pulling the flaps tight behind him, and pulled a bottle of piss-coloured drink from his coat, offering it to Ben.

“We’ll freeze our tits off out here,” he complains, one hand grasping the bottle—open now—, and the other shoved deep into his pocket. “Washington’ll lose his head of intelligence to the cold, and half a regiment along with. You sure you don’t want?”

Ben wrinkles his nose at the rank scent. “No, thank you. And don’t be absurd, last winter was colder.”

Caleb shrugs. “Still.” He takes another swig of his drink; throat bobbing with it, and Ben’s eyes track the movement, unwittingly. Lord—he’s not even drunk a drop, and yet. The affect his old friend has on him.

“Your beard’s in need of trimming,” he says, instead. “You used to tend to it so well.”

“Hard to tend to  _ anything _ in  _ this _ bloody wilderness,” Caleb grumbles; with another swig, and this time, some spills out, over his face, beading droplets on his beard. He lowers his bottle, dragging his arm across his face to wipe it away. “Can’t tend to my needs, either; been three months since I had a bedfellow.”

Ben twitches. “Give me that damn bottle,” he says, finally; and Caleb smiles, letting out a filthy cheer. 

“Finally seen sense, Bennyboy!” he exclaims, and leans back on Ben’s cot; throwing his legs up, mud-caked boots onto the white, and relatively clean, linens.

Ben takes the largest swig he can muster; eyes stinging at the taste. “Aye, that’s it, Tallmadge,” Caleb says. “Now pass the bottle back, will you?”

“Get your feet off my cot and then you can have it,” Ben spits out, finally, letting his chin drop to his chest, tears coursing, stinging, down his cheeks. 

“You and your damn manners,” Caleb complains. “If I take my shoes off, will you stop nagging me like you’re my wife or something?”

Ben snorts. “Call me wife again and we’ll see just how much worse my  _ nagging  _ can get— _ Lieutenant _ Brewster.”

Caleb’s lips part in an unexpected laugh. “Oh ho! You’ve got some bite to you, eh,  _ Major? _ ”

“Teeth as sharp as a wolf’s, aye,” Ben says, and tosses the bottle back. His skin feels hot, now, and his cheeks are flushing, he can feel it. With clumsy fingers—he’s drunk more than he thought, and the drink is stronger than he’d expected—, he tugs at the collar of his uniform; fingers popping the buttons out after a few tries. His cravat goes next; too tight, it feels like it’s choking him.

“I could trim it,” he says; suddenly; without thinking.

Caleb sits up. “What?”

Too late to go back now, he supposes. “Your beard. I could trim it. My father, he taught me how, as a boy.”

Caleb lets out a laugh, again; but stunned, more, this time; cheeks ruddied with drink. “I thought you hated it!”

Ben snorts. “Damn thing’s a mess, yes, but only because you don’t keep a pair of scissors and a comb.”

“Oi! I take insult to that—I keep it just fine!” Caleb protests. He hasn’t made a move to take the bottle from Ben again; content to watch him from his perch in Ben’s cot. It’ll smell like that saltwater-infused coat of his, Ben thinks, idly.

“Oh, yes—washed, to be sure,” Ben says, waving his hand; and sets the bottle down, hard, on his desk; the glass cracking against wood harder than intended. “But cared for? Not by half. Really, I’m amazed any of your bedfellows consent to dalliances given the monstrous thicket on your face. Aye—kissing you must be like sticking your face in a thicket!”

Caleb tugs a boot off and flings it towards him. “Shut up!” He’s laughing, though, and Ben starts to laugh, as well. “My, ah,  _ bedfellows, _ as you so called them, never have complained about it—you’re just picky, you bastard.”

“Me—picky?” Ben scoffs. “I’m camping in the middle of the damn woods in winter, Brewster, if I were  _ picky, _ I’d be a damn Loyalist.”

“Never seen any of  _ your _ bedfellows with a beard,” Caleb points out.

Where it anyone else, Ben would knock the bottle over and hold a knife to his throat for making such suggestions; but it’s Caleb Brewster, his best friend, so he just sits heavily in his chair and says, “Clean-shaven means I spend less time tending to irritated skin.”

Caleb groans, and throws his other boot off in his direction. “Hand me the bottle, you bastard, before I dig out a knife to throw at you as well.”

“Come get it yourself,” Ben retorts, and turns his head on his shoulder to peer blearily towards the whaler; and reaches out blindly to grasp at the bottle, taking a hearty pull. His skin flashes hotter, and he throws off his cravat, and unbuttons his waistcoat.

There’s a beat; and then the cot gives a protest as Caleb swings himself up out of it; rising to half-stagger towards Ben, grasping his shoulder for purchase; and takes the bottle. “You never could hold your whiskey,” he comments, flicking at the opened collar of his uniform.

“You call  _ that _ swill whiskey?” Ben kicks his legs out; wishing he could peel himself out of the tight trousers of his uniform. “Are we going to start calling the King a Patriot, now?”

“Oh, shove it up your arse, Tallmadge,” Caleb grumbles; and corks the bottle. He fingers dig into Ben’s shoulder. “You’re hard as a rock. Too much stress is bad for you, Tallboy.”

Ben jolts at the words; tries to cross his legs as discreetly as possible, afraid that his body has decided the proximity is good enough for such a reaction, before he realises no such thing has happened, and that Caleb speaks merely of the tension in his shoulders. “Aye, well, the war will kill me first,” he says.

Caleb remains silent; merely continues to dig his fingers into his shoulder. “Perhaps,” he says. “Perhaps not. If I—we, that is, do our job properly, there’ll be no death of  _ this _ fine Major.”

“So worried for my safety, eh?” Ben teases; the filthy liquor bringing an easy smile to his lips; and he lets himself look up at Caleb. “Loyal Lieutenant Brewster.”

“To the end,” Caleb says. “As you would be to me, I know.”

“Mm. Of course. Though—” his eyes slip half-shut— “I’m less faithful to that dratted mess on your face, mind.”

Caleb gives a bark of laughter. “Again with my beard. I’d almost think you had intentions with it.” He waggles a brow.

“Don’t be crass.”

“What, is it unbecoming?”

“Of you?” Ben lifts his legs up, onto the desk; kicks the heels of his boots together. “Nothing is unbecoming of you, at this point. Ah—oh, that’s nice.”

Caleb grins. “You think, eh? There’s more where that came from.”

“Get pissed,” Ben says; but there’s no bite to it. “And don’t act all high and mighty, Caleb, just because you know how to dig your fingers into sore muscle doesn’t mean you’ve got anything else to speak for you.”

Caleb hums. His beard glints red-brown in the low candle-light. 

Oh; he’s been looking. He closes his eyes; pushes Caleb’s hand off his shoulder, and drops his legs back to the ground. “You should be getting back to your own tent,” he says, “and take that swill with you before I poison myself with it.”

The whaler frowns. “You’re certain?”

“Quite,” Ben says, “now run along, I can’t sleep with your bloody nattering in here.”

Caleb laughs. “Fine,” he says, and pushes away from the chair, back fully onto his feet. “Get that beauty rest,  _ Major _ Tallmadge.” He snaps off a mock salute, and leaves the tent with his coat flapping behind him.

* * *

Caleb, Ben has learnt, in the twenty-odd years he’s known the man, is something of a master of cards. At chess an checkers, he’s rubbish, yes, and Ben can beat him in minutes at the former, and within half of an hour, but with cards—well, he’s a master with those.

Hence why, after half an hour of watching Caleb play some game or other with the men of one of the captains, he’s perplexed as to why the other keeps  _ losing _ . 

“What are you planning, Brewster?” he mutters, quietly, into his glass.

The others—majors, a few generals, a half dozen captains, and various officers—are dotted around the room; but Ben has eyes only for the whaler, tipped back in his chair, hair mussed from the number of times he’s drawn a hand through it, laughing at his own poor luck in cards—poor luck which Ben cannot fathom.

He’s laughing again, now; his hand on show with how he’s situated himself; two aces, a jack, and a ten of hearts. Not bad, but hardly a winning hand—especially with how he’s showing it. 

Ben pulls at his wine. Across the room, Caleb takes his tankard and spills half of his swig on himself—in show, Ben realises, after a beat; the dimples of his smile hidden behind his beard.

It looks tamer now; in part for the fact that Caleb commandeered his wash-basin earlier, and a bar of soap, and cleaned it properly for the first time in a week or so. 

The Yuletide respite they’ve been granted won’t last more than two days, and so they’re making the best of it with the drink and game and food.

And so, his quandary—Brewster has no reason to be losing so soundly; so why is he, when he so easily could win? Ben finds himself watching with rapt attention; and finds himself searching out the subtle cues of a scheme.

“Major Tallmadge.”

Ben turns to the voice. “Commander,” he says; trying to hide his surprise, “do you need something?”

Washington shakes his head. “No, no, Major; do settle yourself. I merely wished to see what had your brow so deeply furrowed.”

Ben swallows. “Ah,” he says. “Just watching my Lieutenant lose miserably at cards.”

The man frowns; drawing his finger over the rim of his glass. “Brewster? He’s kicked every one of our arses soundly at the very same cards—what trouble has he now?”

“I have yet to discern,” Ben admits; trying to hide his surprise at Washington’s tacit admission to having indulged in a game with Caleb. “I believe he has a...plan, though, of sorts. Otherwise, he’s far drunker than I had thought.”

“Perhaps you ought to lend him a hand,” Washington suggests; taking, finally, a sip from his flute of champagne.

Ben starts. “Me? Sir, I’m hardly any use with cards...”

“Do not take me for a fool, Major Tallmadge,” Washington admonishes. “I find it hard to believe that you would be a master of chess and checkers, but know nothing of cards.”

The Major bites his lip. “You’re right,” he admits, finally, “I don’t indulge, though.”

“But you can play?”

“Aye, sir. But I can play.”

Washington raises his flute, gesturing towards the table Caleb sits at. “To your friend’s aid, then. Good luck, Major.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ben murmurs, and downs the rest of his wine; and turns to stride towards Brewster and his companions.

“Ben!” Caleb greets, when he catches sight of him. “Come, join us—here, here, take my tankard; the ale’s good as any I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Ben says, accepting the proffered tankard; and then the proffered half-chair when Caleb moves off his chair enough for him to sit. “I see you’re being sorely beaten,” he murmurs into the whaler’s ear as he sits down.

“It’s all part of the game,” Caleb murmurs back; and spreads his hand so Ben can see. “They think I’ve got nothing—ah,” he raises his voice, “double, please, Alan!”

“You sure?” asks Alan—a ruddy-faced, fair-haired man, no older than five and twenty.

Caleb nods. “Aye. All in, mate.”

“Ah. You’re going to scam them all out, then?” Ben asks, hiding his words behind the tankard; quiet enough that only Caleb hears him. “A feint. Good man, Brewster.”

“Quite,” Caleb mutters back, and puts down a card.

Ben’s eyes flit back over his hand, and he has to hide the surprise that threatens to flutter across his expression. Four aces—dear lord, the man is good. 

Caleb clears his throat. “Gentlemen,” he says, with a flourish, and sets his cards down, “I’m all out.”

There’s a moment of silence; and then Alan says, “Dear God—four aces?”

“Aye.” Caleb grins, teeth peeking brightly through the red of his beard. “Unless you have some miracle of a hand, I think I win.”

Alan laughs; shaking his head; and the other men begin to as well. ”There,” he says, pushing the winnings towards the whaler, “you’ve won them fair and square—however  _ that _ may be.”

“Another regiment taken out by the infamous cardsmaster Caleb Brewster,” Ben comments; and offers the tankard back to him; eyes watching the other’s mouth disappear behind the brim of it. Fatally attractive, that’s Caleb Brewster for you. Like gravity.

Thankfully, none of the other men seem to have noticed; to busy trying to suss out how Caleb managed to secure a win.

“Practice,” is all Caleb says, once he sets the tankard down. “Well—that, and long nights spent trying to get Bennyboy here to do anything but grind his teeth into a fine dust over frustrating missives. Dedicated to the end, this one.” He shoves Ben’s shoulder with his own.

“Pardon me for trying to get some work done,” Ben huffs, “I’m not made to entertain you, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Caleb says, grinning his absurd little grin behind the—for once well-groomed—beard of his. “That’s why I make sure to come to your tent to beat you at cards.”

“Mm. You only beat me half the time,” Ben points out.

Caleb hides a huff behind another gulp of ale. “For now,” he says. “But only because I can’t stand to sit on your cot for more than three hours a week.”

* * *

They’ve quartered at the local inn for the night after a resounding victory, sending the redcoats fleeing with their tails between their legs from the town. It wasn’t really a fair fight—Abe had gotten word to them about the shortage of munitions among the King’s men, and a layout of their encampment—, but it’s war, and if they are to win, they cannot fight fair, especially not when the enemy won’t.

Two regiments were lost just last week to the redcoats, and Ben has reason to believe it was due to a leak—though from whom, he doesn’t know.  _ Yet. _

He shakes his head, trying to disperse the grim thoughts. Tonight, he’s to rest, by order of Washington himself—a respite he can, if only grudgingly, admit he does need. And the inn has proper beds—he’s already thinking of how nice it will be to sleep on one after so many months of camping in tents with thinly-covered cots and even thinner blankets.

He yawns widely; raising his hand to cover it, and wrinkles his nose at the scent—blood under his nails, and gunpowder, and dirt. At any other time he’d ignore it and just get to sleep, but there’s a tub in the inn, for those willing to pay, and the summer heat means that the cool water will be a welcome relief—hardly an opportunity he can pass up.

Mind made up, he rises from his desk; tucking the inkwell he had gotten out to sign his report into the drawer so it doesn’t risk getting tipped over, and takes out his uniform—he’s dressed himself in plainclothes all day while it was getting laundered and dried.

Caleb catches him on the way there. “Major Tallmadge!” he exclaims, and takes off his hat to bow. “I congratulate you on your victory!”

Ben lets out a sigh. “You were right by my side, Caleb,” he points out; though he knows it’s a futile thing. 

“Off to go find some wench to lay with?” Caleb says, ignoring his words, “I’d wager you could get a right pretty one, what with your heroic actions. Come on, Tallmadge, tell me what you want—blonde? Brunette? Short, tall, slim and dainty, or one with a boisterous laugh?”

Ben shakes his head. “You know I haven’t got any interest, Caleb,” he says, “now put that damned hat of yours on so I don’t have to stand here looking like a fool.”

“You always look like a fool,” Caleb retorts, but does as bid; and falls into step by his side. “So, if not a lay, then what’s the honourable Major off to?”

“A bath,” Ben says. “I’m filthy—I don’t want to get dried blood on the sheets, or my uniform.”

“Ah, your uniform—your one true love.” Caleb nods wisely. 

“No lays for  _ you, _ tonight?” Ben asks; pointedly; but Caleb just shrugs a shoulder and keeps walking with him; and so Ben resigns himself to it, and doesn’t protest when Caleb enters the room after him; just latches the door and goes about filling the tub up.

“Do you remember that one summer,” Caleb asks, when the water’s half filled the tub up, and Ben gives him a questioning look as he strips out of his shirt and trousers. “The summer McNamara stole your Nan’s horse,” he clarifies.

“‘65?” Ben asks, and lowers himself into the tub, letting his head tilt back to rest against the edge, a pleased sigh escaping his lips as the cool water soothes his heated skin. “Yes, why?”

The floorboards shift as Caleb moves; dragging a chair to the side of the tub; and begins to untie Ben’s braid. “We hid out in the orchard all night,” he says, “you remember? We thought that she’d be upset we didn’t tell her when we saw him go into the stables.”

“Aye.” Ben cracks an eye open. “You thought that you’d be run out of town at the tender age of thirteen.”

Caleb laughs, pulling the ribbon in his hair loose. “Hey! You thought that God would damn you to Hell for lying!”

Ben huffs. “I did, that. We huddled together like two fauns hiding from a wolf all night, half out of our minds with the cold—and then the next morning, Nan found us and said she had been worried sick about us, and that McNamara had been caught two minutes out of Setauket anyway, which we would have known if we hadn’t been in the orchard all night!” Caleb had promised to keep him safe, that night, in the orchard—said he’d take a lashing if it meant Ben didn’t have to. He’d stared in awe at the older boy, amazed that he would do such a thing.

“Mm. You’ve got blood in your hair, by the way.”

“Oh, damnit,” Ben grumbles, “I thought I’d gotten that all out earlier.”

Caleb picks up the small bucket, filling it with water, and pours it with more gentleness than he has any right to, over Ben’s hair. “At least it’s not your own,” he says, fingers, calloused, at the base of Ben’s head, and he doesn’t dare look up for fear of what he might not be able to stop himself from doing if he meets Caleb’s eyes. “Though your hair being besmirched by some Tory bastard’s blood—not sure how I feel about that. What if you catch some nasty disease? Aye,” he says, adopting an exaggerated accent, “I knew the lad well myself, doctor—thought he was fine, but then he dropped dead like a fly right ‘afore my innocent eyes!”

“Nothing about those eyes could ever be called  _ innocent, _ ” Ben mutters, and yelps when Caleb tugs at the half-undone braid in retaliation. “Oi! I’ve been growing that for years, now! How’d you like it if I just started abusing your beard?”

Caleb gives a choked sound. “Not the same,” he protests, drawing his hands away from Ben’s head, “don’t threaten my beard, Bennyboy, it doesn’t deserve that.”

Ben snorts. “Right,” he says, and reaches back to unplait the rest of the braid. Caleb’s right—he can feel the dried blood on the strands, especially the ones on the inside. He slides down, away from the edge, to dip his head back into the water. “I’m surprised you haven’t given the damn thing a name—you treat it like your own child.”

“I do  _ not, _ ” Caleb protests; and then, relenting under Ben’s flat stare, “well—only because I don’t have the head for children. Can you imagine?”

“They’d be terrors,” Ben agrees, and sits up, reaching for the soap; and finds himself watching Caleb as he lathers up his hands and draws them through his hair. The bath room is underground; no windows, and lit only by the yellow glow of gas lamps, and in the light, Caleb looks younger.

He is young, Ben remembers, with a pang; they both are—it’s so easy to forget that, sometimes. “You didn’t drop my ribbon on the floor, did you?” he asks, in an attempt to distract himself from his thoughts.

Caleb barks a laugh. “Yours? I’d never, Tallmadge. See?” He pulls the blue ribbon from one of the pockets of his vest. “It’s safe and dry and clean right here.”

“Good,” Ben says. “I have a meeting with the General tomorrow, and it’s a damn nightmare to get that bloody thing clean.”

“Getting all prettied up for the General?” Caleb leans against the wall, pouting. “You never do that for me—your oldest friend!”

“Yes, well, you can’t court-marshall me,” Ben retorts, and begs to scrub his skin with the wash-rag. Caleb, who has absolutely no shame, doesn’t even move from his spot on the wall; just tips his hat so the brim of it obscures his face.

“Don’t ask,” he says; seeming to sense Ben’s line of thought. “What if someone broke the door down? You’d be all alone—how’re you going to defend yourself then, eh, Major? A bar of soap to your attacker’s head? Trust me, you need me here in case.” He pats the flintlock at his hip. 

Ben snorts. “You’re being absurd,” he says, rising fully, and begins to rinse off the suds on his skin. “This is a patriot town.” Still, though, he doesn’t ask Caleb to leave; and for all his words, he still feels safer with the other in the room.

* * *

There’s a leak.

Not in the ranks, for once, thank God.

No—just in his damn skins; and they’ve been leaking all night, down dampening the fabric of his trousers; and he can’t find the holes. He’s half-convinced he’s losing his mind.

Irritably, he whacks at the brush before him, stamping across the frosted leaf-litter, ignoring the murmurs of his men behind him. When the leaf-litter crackles behind him with the approach of one of them, he doesn’t even turn to look at who it is. “What?”

“Woah, you got burrs in your britches, or something?” asks a familiar voice; and against his will, Ben finds his expression, stormy as it is, softening a tad bit. “Your men are afraid that you’re going to take one of their heads off—what’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing,” Ben snaps, and winces when his foot catches on a rock, and he has to struggle to maintain his balance, cursing when his helmet nearly topples off, and he feels the wetness against his leg grow.

Caleb, slightly ahead, turns to him, raising a brow. “Really? Because the reverend’s son I know wouldn’t say such crass things over a wee stone.”

“It nearly lost me my helmet—hardly a  _ wee stone, _ ” Ben says, and then realises he’s walked right into the trap Caleb has laid for him when a smug smile curls at the other’s slips.

“So there  _ is _ something,” he says. “What, did Washington and you get into an argument again?” He flicks Ben’s lapel, adopting a horrid imitation of a Virginia drawl. “Your methods, Major Tallmadge, may not be sufficient—”

Ben lets out an irritated growl, and bats Caleb’s hand away. “Piss off,” he says. “And  _ no, _ it’s not Washington. Though he’s not making matters  _ easier, _ ” he adds, darkly. For the past three weeks, he’s been trying to convince the general that they  _ need _ to get someone into André’s inner circle to no avail, and the leaking water-skins on his hip are only making his already black mood blacker.

“Generals—they don’t know what it’s like down here, eh?” Caleb offers, stepping around a tree-stump in their path. “Men like us are chess pieces.”

“Careful—sounds like seditious words to me, Brewster,” Ben warns; but he’s caving already; and he pulls the skins off, holding them in his hand. If Caleb notices, he doesn’t make comment. “I’m afraid that Culper’s not going to be able to get us everything,” he says, lowly. “But Washington won’t hear a word about getting a man into André’s ranks. I keep dreading that the next day is going to be the one when our intelligence isn’t enough, and we lose men.”

Caleb is silent for a moment; and then he says, “You try and take on burdens like a damn pack-mule, Ben.”

Ben’s lips twist into a sardonic smile. “Better a pack-mule than forcing others to bear it,” he replies, and tugs at his coat; sighs. “Don’t worry about it, Caleb, really. It’s my job—I knew what I was signing up for when I accepted the position of Major.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not going to stop being pissed at Washington for making it harder for you,” Caleb snaps. “Jesus, Ben, let me be upset for you, because I know you sure as hell aren’t going to let it show beyond acting like someone’s killed your favourite hunting hound.”

_ I could, _ Ben thinks; remembering the shouting and the rush in his ears as he had shoved Bradford, his fist connecting with the other’s shoulder and then his face; how good it had felt to finally  _ act, _ even if it didn’t last long—though the image of Caleb coming to his rescue is one that lights a flame in his chest every time he thinks of it. But he’s not that man anymore—more rests on his actions, now. 

Caleb sees it in his face; and takes it as a tacit acceptance of his offer. “Good,” he says. “Now pass me one of those skins, will you? The air’s dry as hell, and my throat is going to kill me.”

Ben does; strapping the other back to his hip with resigned movements.

“Oi! This is empty!” Caleb protests, waving it at him, “did you really give me the one you drunk all of? That’s no way to treat your best friend, Tallmadge!”

Ben’s lips purse. “Here—take the other, then,” he says, and unstraps it.

“...you know there’s a wet spot on your leg, yeah?” Caleb asks, accepting it, and taking a swig; indicating the area bellow Ben’s left hip.

Ben looks down and lets out a string of oaths. It’s leaked more than he’d thought, and the fabric is starting to stiffen as the water begins to freeze in the cold air. “Just my luck,” he says; and, when Caleb tries to offer back the water-skin, he gives an irritated huff. “Keep the damn thing.”

“Alright,” Caleb shrugs. “There’s nothing left in here, anyway.”

“Probably because it leaked all over my trousers,” Ben complains.

“Mm. Well, we’ll know who to blame if you get sick, eh?”

“I’ll make you care for me,” Ben threatens.

Caleb just laughs. “I’ll take good care of you, Major, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” he says, with a wink; and Ben realises that he’s trimmed his beard a bit, because he can see his pink lips as he grins.

He turns away.

* * *

They’re riding towards camp—a day and a half through the three day journey to a safehouse in the south—when one of the scouts comes running back to him, face flushed. “Major Tallmadge, sir!” he shouts, skidding to a rough halt by his horse; panting. “Sir, I need to, to speak with you, I—”

“Take a breath, officer,” Ben commands. “Whatever you have to say will be lost if you cannot articulate it properly, and then it’ll be of no use to us.”

The officer—Hardfell, he remembers with a start—does; one hand against the flank of Ben’s mare as he catches his breath, wheezing for a few moments before he can speak properly. “Sir,” he says, again, “the enemy, they’re, they’re just over the hill, in the dell, hidden by the bushes.”

Ben’s breath catches. “Soldiers? How many? Did you see the guns they had?”

“Fifty-odd,” he replies, “and they have on them pistols, and muskets—but only three horses, sir, and they look wearied.”

“They must have walked—carrie the loads themselves,” Ben murmurs, half to himself; and then shakes his head. “Dismissed, Private Hardfell. Thank you for this information. Tell Lieutenant Brewster I need to speak to him.”

“Aye, sir!” The man snaps off a salute, and turns away. 

A few moments later, Caleb’s by his side. “A Private Hardfell said you wanted to see me, Ben?”

Ben nods; dismounting his mare. “Bloodybacks within two hundred yards of us,” he says, gravely. “I need you to get every one of the men to ready their guns—they outnumber us two to one, but we have more munitions than they.”

Caleb frowns; eyes flickering as the severity of the situation dawns on him. “Can we not go around?”

Ben shakes his head. “There’s a river to the south, and to enemy territory to the north. We’re in neutral territory, now, yes, but only just barely—the only way to to get to our safehouse is through that dell.”

“...I’ll let them know to ready their firearms,” Caleb says, after a beat.

“Good man,” Ben says, and grasps his shoulder tightly; and remounts his mare.

Despite the forewarning, it still takes his breath from his lungs when he catches sight of the red of the enemy’s coats; fifty-four, by his count, slightly more than twice their numbers. “God help us,” he murmurs; and he turns his face to the heavens. “God help us all.”

With a two sharp whistles, they charge into battle.

Guns fire; the scent of gunpowder, the screams of men around them; both his own and the enemy’s. His gun is steady in his hand; the recoil barely registering. “Forward!” he cries, “forward!”

Blood sprays; his uniform turns purple, but he pays it no mind; loads as quickly as he can and fires off another round. Half of the enemy is down, and only a quarter of his own have even been hit; they are winning.

His gaze catches one of his the privates; sword locked with a redcoat, whose back is turned to Ben. An opprotunity—he aims—

Pain rips through his leg, and he screams; the reigns falling from his hand; the gun from his other.  _ Hold, _ he wills his legs.  _ Hold.  _

It’s no use; the mare, the reigns fallen to the side, she bucks; throwing Ben off and onto the hard, frozen ground. His head hits a rock, and his world plunges into darkness.

_ He’s fifteen; off to Yale in two days. Caleb is by his side, due back at his ship soon. Only two years older, his beard has already grown out to an impressive fullness. _

_ “Another ale!” he calls. “My good friend here, Benny Tallmadge, is off to Yale tomorrow! Here, here,” he says, pushing the tankard towards Ben when it’s set down onto the table. “Let’s get that into you.” _

_ “I don’t even like ale,” Ben complains.  _

_ Caleb shrugs. “D’you want to pay for something else?” he asks; lips curling up at the edges, dimples visible even through his beard. Ben tries not to look, and finds himself looking regardless; for the ruddied cheeks of his companion draw his gaze like a magnet. _

_ “No, I suppose not,” he sighs, and takes the tankard; gulping back a mouthful.  _

_ “You’re off to Yale tomorrow,” Caleb says, again, when he’s settled down the tankard down. “My Ben, off to college! Let’s toast to you, eh?” _

_ “ _ Caleb, _ ” he protests, “no, don’t—” _

_ “To Benjamin Tallmadge—!” _

“...Benjamin Tallmadge?”

“Yes, man, did you not hear me? Major Benjamin Tallmadge!”

He groans; leg throbbing; and the slight movement makes the cot creak.

“Ben!”

“Caleb?” He cracks open bleary eyes; the whaler’s face crowding his vision; concern giving way to a grin of heady relief. Behind him, the medic. “The men...”

“The men are fine,” Caleb assures, and Ben thinks,  _ thank God _ . “We only lost one, and the others are all healing nicely. You took an ugly wound knock to the head, but the bullet only that got you didn’t hit bone—it’s out, now, if you want to see?” He gestures to the tray by the cot.

Ben glances over; the bullet glinting dull black against the silver of the tray. “Ah. I was lucky, then.”

“Quite,” the medic agrees. “But there’ll be no intensive action for you for a week yet— _ including _ your regular duties as a Major,” he adds, when Ben opens his mouth.

“...fine,” Ben agrees, after a beat of grudging silence. “Caleb, you’re to drill my men as I would, understood?”

“Aye, sir,” Caleb agrees, snapping off a two-fingered salute, “I won’t go easy on them.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “We both know you will,” he retorts.

Caleb shrugs. “Alright, then, perhaps. But I’ll drill them well.”

“That, I can believe.”

* * *

Ben does his best to wait patiently; for there is nothing more he can do now; and he has worried all day and all night for Caleb already. The image of Washington, dismissing the ring,  _ their _ ring, his and Caleb’s, for lost.

His dismissal rankles Ben, in more ways than one, especially his conviction that Caleb’s capture means Culpers Jr. and Sr. are as well as known. For that, though, he has no remedy; cannot speak out against Washington, already in the foul mood he is. So instead, he plans—the Woodhulls, for five hundred and Caleb.

He nearly hits them when he sees the state of him—shirt ripped, bloodied, bruised his eyes half-lidded and his speech unintelligible. “Caleb?” he asks, “Caleb— _ Brewster! _ ”

“...per...” Caleb slurs, eyes rolled back into his head; and Ben’s vision is encroaching red. 

“Tallmadge,” Havens warns, and Ben reigns himself in; enough to speak, at least, to make the trade; grasping Caleb’s arm, and pulling him over to their side; and that should be the end of it, except—

The next few hours—or, perhaps, days—pass by in a blur; his movements unthinking, deft. He can stand and defend all of them without needing to think about it—he’s a soldier, after all, a Major; he has the training necessary.

So he fights.

That, thank God, is enough; and they get back to camp. He turns Caleb over to the medics—for all the good that does, in the end, when Caleb, the bloody fool, tries to ride a horse out of camp. He ties Caleb to the bed himself, and waits for him to wake—and wake he does, gasping and spitting, wild-eyed.

“Hush,” Ben says; gently, desperately; and grasps his shoulders. “Caleb, I—it’s just me, Caleb, it’s just me.”

“...Ben?”

His voice is weak; but it’s the only thing Ben can hear; the relief crashing over him like a tidal-wave. “ _ Caleb, _ ” he says, again; and nearly embraces him, before remembering the bonds and the restrians himself from it.

“There’s—something I need to tell you,” Caleb hisses. “No, not—not here. Not...safe.”

Ben hesitates. “Your wounds...”

“They’re fine,” Caleb snaps. “I’m fine. It’s about— _ Culper. _ ”

So against his better judgement, he does.

He doesn’t get to talk to Caleb again for weeks, between the mutiny and various missions, and the ending of the war—or, at least, not speak to him properly, not more than a quick word or two. There’s simply not the chance, no matter how much he wishes differently.

But finally, it is over.

Not officially, yet, no; the word hasn’t gone out to the public, but for all the soldiers, it’s the end.

“Caleb,” he says; placing a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder; and pulls away when the other flinches; apologetic. “Join me in my tent? A drink,” he clarifies, “to celebrate our success.”

“...I could drink,” Caleb says. “Lead the way, then, Tallboy.”

There’s some of his old cheer, there; and Ben is glad for it; so he leads Caleb after him into the tent, and pulls out the bottle of Medeira he’s been keeping for just such an occasion out. “My apologies for the lack of glasses,” he says, as he opens it.

“It’s fine,” Caleb dismisses, shifting from foot to foot. 

Ben offers him the bottle. “Age before beauty.”

Caleb lets out a laugh. “Ever the witty one.” He takes the bottle, though, and drinks of it, throat bobbing; and then winces; shoulders stiffening. He’s taken off his coat, and the off-white shirt is speckled with blood— _ fresh _ blood, he realises; Caleb’s own.

“Your back,” he murmurs, taking a step forward, before he stops. “Caleb...”

“Don’t,” Caleb hisses. “It’s nothing.”

Ben frowns. “It’s not nothing—it’s been months since, and you’re still bleeding through your shirt? Caleb,  _ please. _ Don’t tell me you’re alright. Don’t lie to me.”

Caleb swallows. His hand’s fallen to the side, the neck of the bottle grasp in his hand. “I have salve,” Ben says; securing the tent flap. “If...if you’ll permit me.”

“Not like I can bloody well stop you,” Caleb says; but it feels more like a token protest, and he sits down on Ben’s cot, setting the Madeira on the ground. 

He finds it, after a few moments; has kept a jar of it on hand for the past few months, ever since they recovered Caleb, just in case. Now, he holds it securely, and strides across the tent to sit on the cot by his side. His hands hover over the placket of the other’s shirt. “May I?”

Caleb nods mutely; and Ben sets the salve in his lap; undoes the buttons as carefully as he can, and gently pushes the linen off his shoulders; the fabric pooling around his waist, exposing the flesh of his back.

“Dear God,” Ben murmurs; and feels again an all-consuming anger for that bastard Simcoe; for though the bruising has gone, the cuts have not healed, though held shut by sutures—the salt rubbed into them ensuring that, along with the refusal to cease movement. 

He opens the bottle of salve; dips his fingers in, and raises a gentle hand to rub them over the worst of it.

“Ah,” Caleb hisses; and bows his head.

“Sorry.” He grimaces; endeavouring to keep his touch lighter. “You oughtn’t blame yourself, you know. For Simcoe, I mean. For the beating you took—you’re not a weak man for it.”

Caleb doesn’t respond; and so Ben merely sighs, gentle around the wounds.

Finally, he finishes; draws back. Caleb turns, then; and his gaze focuses onto Ben’s face; his hand reaching out to grasp Ben’s arm; swallowing. “Will you...say it again?” 

Ben closes the salve; sets it aside. “You are not a weak man, Caleb Brewster,” he says; and takes his face in his hands; gently; his beard softer than Ben had expected. He leans forward, closing his eyes, and presses his lips to his the other’s forehead. “Never a weak man.”

Caleb draws in a shuddering breath. “No. Do it properly.”

“You want me to be poetic about it?” Ben asks; drawing away, to look at the other properly; hopes that’s not what the whaler speaks of.

“Not the words,” Caleb says. “Ben, kiss me properly.”

When has Ben ever been one to deny his best friend?

He does; gently; shifts himself so that Caleb doesn’t have to twist so far and aggravate the cuts. “I’m not going to let you run around and make them worse, you know,” he says.

Caleb’s lips twist. “I see that now, aye.”

“Good. And...thank you.” For the trust, he means; for Caleb has been guarded and wary, jumping at sounds and sights that aren’t there; and has nightmares nearly every night—to allow Ben to do this for him, something this intimate, is humbling.

“Don’t go soft on me now, Tallmadge,” he whispers; but doesn’t complain when Ben kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [major-721](https://major-721.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


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